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COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 



AiV^here tne Long 
Trail Begins 



iA :'BY 

J' 



Sf^SfLAPPIN 

Editor Christian Standard 



CINCINNATI 

The Standard Publishing Company 
1913 



Copyright, 1913 
The Standard Publishing Co. 



DEC26J9I3 



/^ 



a:i.A361341 






Dedication 



Tkis little book is JeJicateJ to 
the members of tkat great felloAvsbip, 
tne Helpers of Otkers, ^vbo, by tbe 
blessing of God on tbeir o^vn endeav- 
ors, nave been able to come up tnrougn 
great tribulations to places of useful- 
ness m a needy ^vorld. 

S. S. Lappin, 



WHERE THE LONG 
TRAIL BEGINS 



CHAPTER L 

The Quest for a Homb. 

It is a strange and interesting study, this 
conglomerate population of ours. Men ot 
every race, nation and faith have fled, wan- 
dered and drifted to this great and inviting 
land, till we may boast of an aggregation the 
like of which can not be seen elsewhere on 
earth. And the charm of the New World has 
possessed them like a spell. Discontented, it 
may be, in the first location, and the second, 
and even the third, their faces are still toward 
the setting sun ; they almost never turn back. 
A generation may live and die in the Old Do- 
minion; the second comes on to Ohio, the 
third to Illinois, and so, with "Westward Ho!" 
for watchword, the flood of folks moves on, 
each wave reaching farther than the one 
before. 

Not less interesting is the rise and fall of 
inherited tendency in successive individuals of 
a given stock. The disease that preys on a 



2 Where the Long Trail Begins 

generation or two will apparently disappear for 
good, only to show up fifty years down the 
line. Marked moral qualities found in a group 
of related persons seem to be lost for a long 
period, till some great giant springs up from 
an unexpected quarter; then by diligent in- 
quiry the strain may be traced back to its 
former appearance. Intellectual traits have an 
inning for some decades and then fade out 
into mediocrity, only to flash up again from 
some pioneer cabin or workman's cottage. 
Families thrive but to die out; faculties dis- 
tinguish but to desert; wealth comforts by its 
presence but to cast down when it vanishes; 
genius lingers here and there, as if to succor 
hope till a better day shall dawn. Yet nothing 
good is ever lost. In all this ferment of con- 
scious spiritual life there is ever enough of 
real value to justify the anticipation of the 
coming better day. And so, 'mid flitting scenes 
of shade and shine, our little lives move on. 
And so, because we can see so little of the 
plan above it all, we come to measure the 
ways of a great world by the things that tran- 
spire in the little valley where we live. But it 
is sweet to know that those who have traveled 
farthest and seen most clearly proclaim a 
universal upward trend and a future full of 
promise. 



The Quest for a Home 3 

The little story I here begiu has ever been 
a part of my dream life. I know the risk I 
run in trying to call it up — that the delicate 
mystery and charm of it all may vanish for- 
ever — but the plain people who played the 
heroic part in these little tragedies may die 
unsung and unappreciated except I speak, and 
a needy world thus miss something of its real 
"wealth, so I yield to the pleadings of impulse 
and take up my task. 

When the Civil War closed, Missouri, torn 
by the strifes of her own people and by con- 
tentious of armies and predatory bands from 
beyond her borders, lay broken and bleeding. 
Many of her citizens had fled forever with 
family and fortune, such as could readily be 
taken, and were exiles in North or South. 
Farms were tenantless, and land, the best of 
it, cheap, while much could be had for the tak- 
ing by whoever would occupy it for a period 
of years. Attracted by reports of an open 
and inviting country to be occupied, a great 
tide of immigration moved westward from Ohio 
and Illinois in the late sixties and early sev- 
enties. It was the third and fourth genera- 
tions of original first settlers, on whom the 
restlessness of their fathers had been visited. 
Many of them found good and permanent 
homes in the territory immediately beyond the 



4 Where the Long Trail Begins 

Mississippi, and there reared sons and daugh- 
ters who are the pride of a great common- 
wealth and who are proud to be called Mis- 
sourians. Others stopped there but for a gen- 
eration, to rear their children among green 
hills and gushing springs, and then moved on 
— the young folks at least — to the inviting 
stretches of level land in Kansas and Nebraska. 

But there was a reflex wave of which his- 
tory can give no account, since it built nothing 
and destroyed nothing. With sad and hopeless 
deliberation it crept back, bearing on its bosom 
the broken and unfortunate to the sources 
from whence they came. Financial reverse, 
drouth and death were fruitful causes of this 
return. Perhaps a frail woman had succumbed 
to the rigors of pioneer life, and a sad-hearted 
husband, with his orphaned brood, came back 
to blame himself for the venture he had made. 
Or parents returned childless and heartbroken 
to reflect that it might have been different had 
they never gone West. Sadder still was it 
when a widowed mother, with her defenceless 
little ones, had to cast herself on this return- 
ing tide and be thrown back helpless among 
those in whose hearts time and distance had 
chilled the attachments of other years. 

It was early in the spring of '70 that a 
young farmer schoolmaster of Illinois launched 



The Quest for a Home 5 

his "prairie schooner" and turned resolutely 
toward the much-lauded land of Missouri. 
Besides himself and his companion, there were 
three children. The eldest was a lad of six, 
the second a bright-eyed girl of two and the 
third a boy baby in arms. The canvas-covered 
wagon plodded slowly over the hundred miles 
to the great river, crossed at the Alton ferry 
and began its tour of exploration. 

The course chosen led up the Missouri 
some hundreds of miles, across to Sedalia and 
thence southward. There was time and to 
spare before cropping should begin, and the 
journey was made with such leisure as would 
permit a sufficient investigation of each local- 
ity. Just why the richer lands of the great 
bottom were passed by, and the more broken 
districts farther south given preference, it 
would be hard to determine. Perhaps the 
price per acre was a strong factor; or, it may 
have been that timber for firewood and build- 
ing purposes, or rolling lands and gushing 
springs, appealed to the inherited Buckeye 
sentiments of the settler. However that may 
have been, a stop was made at Bolivar, in Polk 
County. After a year here, spent in teaching 
and small farming, a permanent location was 
chosen in the " Gumbo Hills " farther south. 
The cabin home was located two and a half 



6 Where the Long Trail Begins 

miles from "Pin Hook," or, to give the more 
refined Government designation precedence 
over the neighborhood nickname, Pleasant 
Hope. The nearest railroad was at Springfield, 
twenty miles away. Even now the newer road 
that has crept down through the hills from 
Harrisonville, and to Bolivar, has brought the 
outside world but six miles nearer that se- 
cluded section. 

There is something stern and forbidding in 
the grim and unyielding aspect of mountain 
foothills. Irrigation has conquered arid areas 
farther west, and made them not only habitable, 
but rich and productive. Underdrainage has 
redeemed great sodden wastes in Illinois and 
Iowa, but in Missouri, and elsewhere as well, 
the challenge of the hills has prevailed. It 
was my privilege recently to look once more 
on the rocky steeps which are indelibly shad- 
owed on the sensitive plates of my earliest 
memory. I went with the apprehension that 
all would be changed save the hills them- 
selves; but, could I have been made a child 
again, it would have been easy to imagine that 
all the intervening years had been a dream. 
I slept under a coverlet and dried my face on 
a towel made by hand from cotton grown on 
the place where they were in use. I sat beside 
a wide fireplace, with its backlog and fore- 



The Quest for a Home 7 

stickj and when I looked about me, but for the 
presence of an iron bed of recent make, I 
could have thought I had dropped back into 
the homely but happy life of three decades 
ago. But the experience was far from unpleas- 
ant; on the contrary, I shall remember it 
while I have a mind. Just to be among people 
who are unacquainted with hurry and un wor- 
ried by the nagging calls of a meddlesome 
and discontented world is a relief, though it be 
but for a day. 

The quiet of days long gone may be in 
part a pleasing illusion; perhaps it is only 
that the din and discord of that which fret- 
ted us then, being transient and incidental, 
have vanished, leaving the real features of 
that life in true perspective. Or, it may be 
that the subconscious better self takes note 
only of that which is worthy to be preserved, 
storing it up for a rainy day, a treasure that 
"neither moth nor rust can corrupt, nor 
thieves break through and steal." 

However the philosophy of it may run, the 
good things we once had, can now be enjoyed 
only in memory; we can not restore them, 
or the sensations they produced, by going 
back. God's way for mankind is forward, and 
happy he who out of his past has been able 
to retain and cultivate the art of separating 



8 AVhere the Long Trail Begins 

gold from dross in the criss-cross experiences 
of the days that come and go. 

And it was here, in the country now made 
famous by the books of popular writers, that 
the home was found and the hard lot of an 
ambitious man was cast. Here, too, was laid 
the scene of battle with stump and stone, in 
which many a stronger man might have gone 
down in defeat or won only at great cost to 
his physical frame. And it did end in defeat 
and darkness and disaster, the like of which I 
trust few families have ever had to know. But 
it was the darkness of a lingering night which 
the dawn of a bright day has at last dispelled. 
It was the pall and gloom of a transient storm, 
and the bow of promise reflected on retreating 
clouds is shining in the east, and it is God's 
world once more. 

"Clouds ofttimes shut out the blue of heaven, 
But 'neath God's hand we still securely dwell, 
And, trusting him, wait patiently for even — 
If it be clear at sunset, all is well." 

It is this faith, and this alone, that makes 
my story worth the telling, and the telling of 
it worth while. 




M.S^. 



CHAPTER II. 

A Pile of Stones. 

Little remains to mark the spot where 
stood the rude house we called home during 
our five years' residence in the Gumbo Hills of 
Polk County. A pile of rough stones where 
the chimney of the big fireplace used to be — 
this, and nothing more. A pile of stoneSy 
with a wild thorn spreading its unlovely arms 
above and briars in profuse disorder all about. 
A pile of stones! but of all the monuments 
of masonry I know — and they are not a few — 
there is no other so significant as this. "What 
mean ye by these stones? " does one ask? 
Much indeed ! They were first gathered and 
placed by the hand of my father; and in all 
this great world there is no other material 
thing I can be sure his hands have handled. 
And these are a ruin now 1 What a commen- 
tary on the handiwork of man ! Yet I can be- 
lieve that he laid other stones than these — 
stones that earthquake, nor storm, nor time 
can ever move. A pile of stones I The first 
years of my memory were spent in the radiant 
reach of the fires that blazed against these 
stones. And the light of that fireside has shone 



10 Where the Long Trail Begins 

far. Not one of those who shared its ruddy- 
glow has lived long enough or traveled far 
enough or fallen low enough to get beyond its 
warmth or brightness. A pile of stones — as 
I write these words a broken bit of one of them 
lies before me in use as a paper-weight, and 
when ray eyes fall upon the blackened surface, 
purposely left on one side, visions of the pre- 
cious past rise before me like a sweet dream. 
There is little left in the memory of later 
life that can dim the blue depths that bent 
above our childhood days. Sunrise and sun- 
set, as we recall them, grow brighter with the 
passing years, and the mystic charm of twi- 
light takes deeper hold, but the good artist we 
call Time mercifully strikes his brush across 
the clouds. That log house — its roof of riven 
boards, its door secured with wooden latch and 
hinges, its hospitable hearthstone — why, among 
all the splendid homes to which I have since 
been made welcome I have not discovered one 
80 good to me. The simple life we lived, our 
plain fare, the few books and papers that found 
their way to us, the trip to Springfield twice a 
year, and the little souvenirs of the great un- 
known o'ltside world that were sometimes 
brought home to the children — these are tame 
enough to read about, I know, but to me their 
brightness is that of childhood's radiant day. 



A Pile of Stones 11 

My mental effort to recall the past has resulted 
in a grouping of what remains into several 
separate pictures. A glimpse at these and the 
rude background on which they are cast is all 
I can offer, for it is all that remains to me of 
the home among the hills. 

The "Pill Peddler," gaunt but great, stands 
before me. A simple-hearted medicine-vender 
was he, who came our way twice a year. 
What with the malaria so common then, and 
all the aches and shakes that company with 
that kind, there was much demand for tonics 
and cathartics. I remember little of the rem- 
edies carried by our friend, the peddler, though 
I dare say I had my share of those left to pay 
for his keep ; but I remember the man. Ills 
chief claims to distinction, as I recall him, 
were an apparently endless stream of talk and 
an unappeasable appetite for biscuits. Truly 
he "sat by the fire and talked the night away." 
And we, who heard so little of what transpired 
in the far-away world outside our hill-bound 
horizon, drank it all in with unflinching cre- 
dulity, though I caught a hint of a smile on 
my father's face sometimes, when the peddler 
was not looking his way. And always on these 
occasions my mother had biscuits for break- 
fast. 

Biscuits 1 The word thrills me yet, al- 

(2) 



12 Where the Long Trail Begins 

though biscuits have lost the power to do so. 
The times when we had wheaten biscuits stand 
out like little oases in great deserts of corn- 
pone and dodgers. How this world has chang- 
ed since then ! There are biscuits enough in 
existence, such as they are, at this very instant 
to paralyze every weakened stomach in all 
Christendom, but what has gone with the dodg- 
ers? How I would relish one right nowl Be- 
ing the youngest, I had to wait at meals when 
the Pill Peddler breakfasted at our humble 
board, and I recall with what growing hope- 
lessness I always counted the biscuits he ate. 
On one occasion when he was our guest there 
was, by some chance, a slight gap in the con- 
versation at breakfast, and in the stillness that 
made my words unintentionally distinct, I call- 
ed out: "Ma, he's eat seven already, and he's 
takin' another." And he did take it, even after 
that, but it was his last. 

There was a trip to town with my father. 
We rode in on a load of cordwood. This we 
left at the mill where the mischievous fireman 
"touched the gauge" for my entertainment and 
laughed when the loud hiss of steam brought 
terror to my face. Again I stand by the coun- 
ter at Spence's store. The mail is being 
"cried" — a bi-weekly event at Pleasant Hope. 
This over, and our little purchases made, my 



A Pile of Stones 13 

father, through deference to the boyish dispo- 
sition to linger, said: "Sam, do you see any- 
thing here you'd like to have?" I thought he 
meant to purchase what I might choose and 
suggested a pocket-knife — a one-bladed barlow 
I had been earnestly eyeing. At my words, a 
queer and, to me, new look flitted over his 
stalwart face and he led me away. I blamed 
him in my boy's heart then, for I little knew 
the constant struggle he had to provide his 
family with the barest necessities of life. May 
he forgive me for it, if he knows, for I have 
boys of my own now and I know that to refuse 
me cost him a pang far greater than that I 
suffered. But ah! the memory of this has com- 
forted me over many an unanswered prayer. 
The bumpy ride home on the running-gear, the 
eagle we saw flying with a squirrel in its talons 
and the companionship of a father never 
known to me before or since as on that rare 
day are sweet odors from the flowery fields of 
long ago. 

Three times I was the youngest of our fam- 
ily, for, though two baby brothers came to our 
cabin home, they left us after a playfully prat- 
tled welcome and farewell. One of them looks 
at me out of the picture I recall now. I have 
a clear remembrance of seeing him but twice, 
once when I got down to give him my place in 



14 Where the Long Trail Begins 

my mother's arms, and again when she bade 
him good-by and took me to her again, and I 
pitied him both times. At the first he seemed 
so weak and helpless, and at the last so quiet 
and so cold. But what I remember best is 
that once, in the autumn — his first and last 
autumn — when learning to walk, he pressed 
a baby hand into the soft clay with which the 
cracks of our house had been newly filled. 
When spring came again he had gone from us, 
but all through that summer and till autumn 
came again, there was a little handprint in the 
hardened clay. Ah ! little ones we have lost, 
could you but know it where you are, your 
marks remain for a long time on the hearts 
that were softened by your presence. My 
mother's vision was very defect! v^e, and some- 
times that summer when we were alone at the 
house I saw her go to that print in the clay 
and run her sensitive finger tips along its out- 
line. Remembering this to-day, I could be- 
lieve, though I had no other evidence, that a 
good God has made provision that the treas- 
ures we have lost here, and for which our 
lonely hearts so long, shall sometime be re- 
stored. 

There was a vigorous Cumberland Presby- 
terian church at Pleasant Hope in those days. 
We did not attend religious meetings often. 



A Pile of Stones 15 

There were reasons why we did not go. Per- 
haps they were not good ones, but they were 
such as still keep many from the house of God 
and such as might prevail with us again, were 
we put to the same test. 1 remember seeing 
the inside of the church but once. It was at 
the burial of the baby brother. And I remem- 
ber the sad journey homeward and the lone- 
liness we all felt. It was after this loss that 
our family altar came into being. The worn 
old Bible was brought out, and each morning 
there was reading and a simple prayer at our 
fireside. We did not understand much tliat 
was read, and the honest endeavor that was 
sometimes made to throw light on difficult 
passages did not help much. We did not un- 
derstand how the God of a universe could be 
influenced by the simple petition sent up from 
our cabin home ; no more do we now, for that 
matter, but we believed then that these pray- 
ers were effective, and we believe it still. 

It is evening in winter-time. Preparations 
for the night are in progress. A great pile of 
wood is being stacked inside the door. Back- 
log and forestick, with plenty of smaller wood 
for filling, are provided. The last armload, 
consisting of sections from a chinquapin oak, 
is piled high — the last, that is, but one stick, 
now in the arms of a youngster, who comes 



16 Where the Long Trail Begins 

along staggering under its weight. At the 
doorstep he stumbles and goes rolling in the 
snow. The tall man holding the door open 
calls out jocosely, "Come on there, Chinqua- 
pin, with that boy 1 " and the boy who came in 
had a new name. "Chinquapin" stuck fast for 
many a year. To this very day, after three 
decades have passed, if I heard the call, 
"Come on here, Chinquapin," though it were 
on State Street in Chicago, there would be si- 
lence in my soul till I discovered the owner of 
that voice. And I shall hear it again some- 
time. When I have borne my burden over a 
long journey and into the chill snows of life's 
evening, I shall come to an open door, with a 
vacant place and a warm welcome waiting in- 
side, and a Father's voice to call me by a new 
name and bid me come in. If, indeed, this be 
the end of it all, then nothing has been in 
vain. 

Shadows begin to gather! First, as I re- 
member it, there came from the county- seat a 
rumor that a great tract of land, including our 
claim, was in litigation. This meant little to 
children, but it was the occasion of no small 
anxiety for older heads. There were two dry 
years about this time, and, as if to add to em- 
barrassment already strenuous, there was bad 
luck among the live stock. My father was a 



A Pile of Stones 17 

mighty woodsman, and during these years he 
had resort to his ax and wagon. The then 
boundless forest paid tribute to his toil, and 
many a huge sawlog did he haul to the mill at 
Pleasant Hope. The meager price then paid 
for timber would have served well enough to 
supply our simplest needs had not other mis- 
fortune befallen. The herculean task of mak- 
ing a farm among the timbered hills, and sup- 
porting a family at the same time, was too 
much for him, and the foundations of our 
bread-winner's health were disturbed. One 
summer night as they lay talking — the coura- 
geous frontiersman and his faithful wife — long 
after the children were asleep, discussing plans 
and prospects, the man raised himself on his 
elbow to clear his throat, and his mouth filled 
with a warm fluid. In suspicious alarm he 
arose and went to the moonlit door to discover 
what it might be. There was no mistaking, it 
was a hemorrhage. 

Days of anxiety followed. All remedies 
and treatments were unvailing. Through the 
winter his strength failed steadily, and tuber- 
culosis appeared. Then came a court decision 
that the farm title was defective. When at 
last a return to Illinois was planned, there 
were few who cared to risk purchase money 
on the place, even at the lowest price. An 



18 Where the Long Trail Begins 

overland journey was advised by physicians, 
and the team of young mules got in exchange 
for the scant claim on our home, with the old 
wagon, newly ironed, was our outfit for travel. 

It must have been in March that we start- 
ed. Our route lay by the way of Springfield, 
where we meant to stop some days. A phy- 
sician lived there in whom my father had 
great confidence, and we wanted to consult 
this man as a last resort, but it proved to be 
only a straw in reach of a sinking man. When 
we stopped in front of his residence in Spring- 
field on a Sunday afternoon, the doctor came 
from the yard to see what was wanted. He 
made a careful examination, but said little. 
When it was over and pay was offered, he 
said, "No, my good man; keep your money; 
you need it worse than I do," and we drove 
on, asking no word more than this, and his 
grave look as he turned away, to tell us there 
was no hope. 

As for myself, I knew little of what it all 
meant. When, on the next day, I found the 
two older children standing by a window, cry- 
ing softly, I wondered they could be so sad 
with so much all about us to be seen. They 
had begun to know what they were losing; it 
would take years to teach me that lesson. We 
were caught in the ebb-tide of immigration. 



CHAPTER III. 

Caught in the Ebb-tide. 

Four hundred miles overland behind a 
team of mustangs ! For a robust man full of 
the spirit of adventure there might have been 
something attractive in the prospect. But for 
a woman with three children and an invalid 
husband it was not an expeiience to anticipate 
with any degree of comfort. But such was the 
uninviting path of duty that stretched before 
my mother as our brief stay in Springfield 
came to a close in the early spring of ^7Q. 

In those days, and still for all I know, 
there was at Springfield a light-built wooden 
structure known as the "Wagon House." It 
had been erected at public expense, I think, 
for the accommodation of such patrons of tha 
town as lived at a distance and found it con- 
venient to stop overnight when trading; it 
was divided into compartments and, though 
cheaply built, was comfortable enough in mild 
weather. Here we spent the two or three days 
of our final preparation for the journey to Illi- 
nois. During the time, several men who had 
been our neighbors at Pleasant Hope came to 
town to market and do their spring trading. 



20 Where the Long Trail Begins 

Learning of our presence, they sought us out 
to say a kindly word of farewell. There were 
seven of them, I think ; large, unshorn men of 
the hills they were, for the most part, rough 
and uncouth. They were all members of the 
Cumberland Presbyterian Church at Pleasant 
Hope. They knew my father as a "non-pro- 
fessor," and my mother as a "Campbellite," 
n^ ither of which was a title of special honor in 
Presbyterian circles. But in the presence of 
our affliction, be it said to their honor, they 
lost sight of distinctions and spoke heart to 
heart. They were glad to grant my father's 
request and hold a short service of prayer 
around his cot. This over, they lent them- 
selves, each in his own blunt but kindly way, 
to the encouragement of my mother with such 
words as they could speak. When they with- 
drew to another room a low-toned consultation 
was held and one of their number returned 
with a purse of seven dollars for my mother. 

These men were from the only church or- 
ganization in all the section where they lived. 
When I think of some things that took place 
in their revival meetings as it has been related 
to me, some preaching that was done from 
their pulpit, and recall the fact that recently 
the congregation stood strongly against union 
that was to blend their body with the parent 



Caught in the Ebb-tide 21 

denomination, I could persuade myself that it 
wasn't much of a church; but that would be 
to judge of the wheat hy the chaff. When I 
remember the meeting in the "Wagon House" 
at Springfield — the material fruits of their pro- 
fession — 1 can believe that men are often bet- 
ter than their opinions would seem to indicate. 
Baxter P. Fullerton was Moderator, recently, 
of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian 
Church. His father, I think, was at the meeting 
in the "Wagon House." A. L. Barr, for years a 
useful minister in the Cumberland Presbyterian 
Church and later a pastor at large in Texas, is 
a son of another of those men. Dr. Cowden, a 
man of high repute and high honor in his body, 
came out of another family represented in that 
little meeting. These three men, whose fathers 
said simple prayers at the bedside of a dying 
man in Springfield thirty years ago, and whose 
lives budded and bore fruit from an early en- 
vironment purified by that kind of piety, are 
to me a sufficient justification of the country 
church and its rude Teachings after God. That 
kind of religion pays ; indeed, it is about the 
only thing in this disappointing world that 
does pay in full. 

To lighten the load for our mustangs, we 
dispensed with all we would not actually need. 
Our clothing, bed furnishings, cooking utensils 



22 Where the Long Trail Begins 

and a few dishes, with a box or two of family- 
possessions too precious to sacrifice, were all 
we carried. A great black dog came to us one 
day and attached himself to our expedition 
before we set out. We thought he knew our 
ponies and preferred to remain with them 
rather than with the master who received our 
mule team in exchange, and so we could not 
drive him off. Perhaps, compelled to make 
choice, he preferred the ponies to the man. 
Being kindly in spirit, and loyal to the family, 
the dog was soon regarded as a member of our 
party with full privileges. We had little to 
share with him, but "Old Rover," as we 
named him, proved able to shuffle for him- 
self and keep up with the wagon to boot. 

Of necessity our movement was slow. Our 
horses were new on the road, and my father's 
condition so variable that we could not travel 
much some days. To the younger children the 
experience was so novel as to be most inter- 
esting at first. During the day we lay on our 
backs watching the leaf shadows chase each 
other across the wagon- cover, or laughed to 
hear the patter of sudden showers that seemed 
to be angry at not being able to get at us. 
Tiring of this, we would drop out behind and 
follow the wagon barefoot till weary enough 
to snooze away an hour or two as we rode. 



Caught in the Ebb-tide 23 

At tlio head of the caravan was our brother of 
thirteen. Sitting on a box at the front of the 
wagon, his bare brown legs hung over outside, 
he held the lines, not failing to touch up a 
lagging pony now and then, his big blue eyes 
misrsing meanwhile nothing of all the land- 
scape panorama that floated slowly by. 

When evening came we would select a 
suitable spot and camp by the roadside. A fire 
of sticks would be sufficient to prepare our 
simple meals. At night the sick man slept on 
an improvised bed under the wagon, and the 
others occupied couches softened by drowsi- 
ness under the canvas above. Often some 
kind-hearted farmer would protest against our 
staying outdoors at night, but the open air 
was thought to be more desirable. 

Thus the days wore on. The long road, 
like a yellow ribbon fluttering in the breeze, 
stretched out behind us farther and farther. 
There were steep flint hills where both rear 
wheels must be chained. There were turbu- 
lent streams where some man on horseback 
would ride ahead of us to guide our driver. 
Once, I remember, w^a<-er rose to the wagon-bed, 
striking terror to the hearts of all. We made 
constant and careful inquiry as to the best 
route and the smoothest roads. When cross- 
ing one river, the Gasconade, I think, the 



24 Where the Long Trail Begins 

ferryman, some "Preacbiug Bill" of the Ozarks, 
told my mother that there was a long stretch 
of pike ahead "for thirty mile or more;" then, 
as we were starting, he shook his head, refus- 
ing pay for carrying us, and remarked: 
"You'll find them pikes is the kind God made, 
an' the stone is not broke up very fine." 

One of our horses — the team my father 
had traded for, thinking them better suited for 
our purpose than the mules — was almost blue 
in color and marked profusely with an assort- 
ment of deep-scarred brands. He was full of 
spirit till the flint hills took it out of him. It 
was my mother's constant fear that our young 
driver would come to grief in handling the 
animal, though the boy himself was not in the 
least afraid of him. Between this fear and the 
fording of streams, dangers in the presence of 
which she was helpless because of her dim 
eyesight, her life was a constant misgiving. 

I think our course must have followed the 
line of the St. Louis and San Francisco Rail- 
road, for the names of several towns on that 
line have a familiar sound to me as I call 
them over. We passed through Lebanon, I 
know, for it was there I saw a burnished brass 
door-knob — the very acme of attractiveness to 
me, and one that started me to wondering 
what other bright things there might be in the 



Caught in the Ebb-tide 25 

world. In spite of all the history I have read, 
I have never been able to get quite away from 
the impression that the human race was just 
beginning to get started a little when we 
pulled out of the Gumbo Hills in '76. How 
prone we are to judge the world by our 
limited personal knowledge of a little part of 
it ! I have seen many brass door-knobs since 
then, and some of greater worth — have even 
had my hands on a few of them — but I have 
ceased to look for another like the one I saw 
at Lebanon. 

The first days of May found us plodding 
along among the hills of Pulaski County. It 
was beginning to be talked that we were "half- 
way" now. Sure it was that our wagon tires 
were beginning to show decided evidence of 
wear, the ponies were noticeably quieter, and 
the juvenile portion of our expedition had be- 
gun to think they had moving enough for one 
time. My father, though much too ill to travel, 
would not consent to stop, and his counsels 
prevailed over the entreaties of his companion, 
and so we kept on. I know how his heart 
must have rebelled against leaving us before 
we reached our friends. How the years help 
us to appreciate things like this ! I see now 
that he was but fighting off death from day to 
day till we could reach our destination. 



26 Where the Long Trail Begins 

One pleasant evening we drove up on the 
cnipyard by a vacant log house to strike camp 
for the night. As we came to a standstill, the 
wagon gave a lurch. Our driver looked down 
in alarm to discover tlie cause and then an- 
nounced that a wheel was crushed. Have you 
ever seen the broken wheel among flower de- 
signs at a funeral ? I have, and it never fails 
to bring back the remembrance of that day. It 
was settled for us now that we must stop, for 
a time at least. 

We took possession of the house, which 
had been vacated but recently, and made the 
invalid as comfortable as we could. A near-by 
resident, seeing our wagon as he passed, stop- 
ped to inquire where we were going. Finding 
a sick man, he quickly spread the news and 
watchers came to spend the night with us. A 
physician was called ; the next day a preacher 
came — a great, burly man, with long white 
beard and a kindly voice. Up to that time I 
had not seen a minister that I can remember, 
and the memory of this big, plain, pleasant- 
faced man as he sat among us and as he laid 
his huge hands on the heads of us children is 
sweet to recall. 

In the middle of the next night death 
came. With a long, weary sigh the exhausted 
man looked up into the face of his faithful 



Caught in the Ebb-tide 27 

companion, and said : "Oh, wife, I am afraid I 
must die and leave you and the children here 
among strangers after all !" There was no con- 
solation to offer and he expected none. Every 
last wii^h was denied him, and his life, like a 
ship going down in mid-ocean, went silently 
out. I do not know what his hopes of the fu- 
ture may have been ; I am sure he was not 
afraid to die I do know that his sad last 
thought was not of himself, but of the defense- 
less family he was leaving. May I say that I 
have a faith that He whose mercy has tem- 
pered the rude blast to the necessities of that 
family has dealt rightly with its fallen head — 
our broken wheel. 

Nowhere is there a more sympathetic or a 
more hospitable people than the residents of 
the hill country of Missouri. They pressed in 
upon us to provide every comfort and every 
necessity their good hearts could suggest. No 
pay would they have for any of it, and when 
the yellow mound of earth in a hillside ceme- 
tery was rounded and marked, and we return- 
ed, it was to find that all our belongings had 
bpen moved to a near-by farmhouse, and pro- 
vision made for us to stop in the community 
for a season. We would not feel like travel- 
ing, they said, and then the horses needed 
a rest, too. There were those among these 

(3) 



*2S Where the Long Trail Begins 

good people who insisted that we should stay 
in their midst. Just why we did not, I can 
not say, for I know my mother shrank from 
returning penniless to her people. Perhaps 
it was an inner instinct that urged her on; 
and again, perhaps it was a wisdom we little 
recognized, providing an environment for the 
future such as we could not have had there. 

When two weeks had passed, our mus- 
tangs, now fresh and full of spirit, were put 
in harness again. Amid the protests of our 
new-found friends, we prepared to go on. 
The morning we started, that unbounded gen- 
erosity of the Missouri people broke out 
afresh. Not content with having buried our 
dead for us and housed and fed us all, they 
came to see us off, each bringing a final token 
of good will — one a ham, another a bag of 
cornmeal, another some fruit and another a 
flitch of bacon — till we were well supplied 
with such provisions as we would have need 
of on the way. 

One woman among them, a Mrs. Johnson, 
was especially kind to my mother. Her fa- 
ther owned the ground where my father was 
buried, and of her own accord she gave my 
mother the assurance that the place should 
not be lost, so that in case we wanted to visit 
the spot we could do so. We thought little 



Caught in the Ebb-tide 29 

of this at the time; so dire was the condi- 
tion in which we were placed, that we could 
scarce imagine a time when we would want 
to return to the place. But when, thirty years 
later, two men hired a livery outfit and drove 
to that neighborhood, there was but one per- 
son living who could have located the grave. 
Mrs. Johnson pointed it out, and, to our great 
surprise, it was well rounded and in as good 
condition as the other graves about. 

We were one hundred miles from St. Louis 
and St. Louis was one hundred miles from our 
journey's end. With this prospect ahead we 
began our final ride. When I think of it now, 
I shudder and wonder. A woman, almost 
penniless and practically blind, with a trio of 
little ones, compelled to travel that distance 
behind a pair of Indian ponies, with a thir- 
teen-year-old driver, and at a time, too, in 
her woman's life when very soon 

"She Bhould stand anear to heaven's portal, 
And there, while life and death stood by, 
Should pluck witli trembling hands a flower immortal." 

Fear and courage had daily battle in her 
heart — fear of dangers she could not avert 
and courage to meet them as a brave woman 
should. Two months later, when we were set- 
tied in Illinois, twin boys were born to our 
home. A great fear of water, a shrinking 



30 Where the Long Trail Begins 

from uncertain horses, and a timidity in the 
presence of sickness and death, are marked 
characteristics of one of them to this day, 
while the other would leave a chicken-pie 
dinner, preacher that he is, for a dive in deep 
water or a spin behind a fractious colt. 

But we were off over the yellow, rocky 
road again, climbing, circling, ascending and 
descending, ever leading us from the land of 
our sorrow toward the great city and what 
might be in store for us beyond. 







=4,^^ 



-^ 



^ 



CHAPTER IV. 

The Long Last Mile. 
The last long half of that undulating 
stretch of road lay before us. Southwestern 
Missouri was a memory and Illinois a pros- 
pect, but that yellow, stony road was a reality 
present and tangible. Our team, fresh from 
two weeks on pasture, was ready, even eager, 
for the start. A little incident that might 
have ended in something more serious than 
the hearty laugh it gave us, served to impress 
this on our minds. Our young driver one day 
attempted to flick a fly from the rump of Old 
Dick, the spirited "blue pony;" not under- 
standing the benevolent motive of the boy, 
that vindictive beast promptly planted three 
vicious kicks on the front end-gate of the wag- 
on, splitting it in as many pieces. It so hap- 
pened that the hoofs landed each time safely 
between the pair of brown legs dangling there, 
but the full-moon eyes of the lad that scram- 
bled back to safety were a sufficient guarantee 
that the experiment would not be repeated. 
Poor Old Dick, before we reached our jour- 
ney's end he had not the spirit left to resent 
even greater indignities than that. 



32 Where the Long Trail Begins 

Under the influeuce of the bright sunshine 
and the open air of our outdoor life, the buoy- 
ant spirit of childhood soon began to assert 
itself anew. Not even my mother, with all 
her sorrow and anxiety, could wholly with- 
stand the persistent call to brighter thoughts. 
Our story thus far, when interested question- 
ers drew it from us, failed not to rouse the 
hearty and genuine sympathy of the simple 
folk along the way. Often we were urged to 
stop and make our home among the hospitable 
people of some pleasant neighborhood. Va- 
rious reasons were urged. One man whose wife 
had died, leaving his family of small children 
to be cared for, was especially insistent. An 
inducement he offered gave rise to some levity 
among us children behind the wagon cover. 
His wife, before her demise, had made two 
kegs of soft soap — "Fustrate soap," he said — 
and one of these should be ours if we would 
but occupy a vacant log house not far from 
his own, and do baking and mending for his 
family. But none of these things, not even 
the bonanza above mentioned, could move my 
mother from her determination to return to 
Illinois. 

We had not traveled far when we began 
to hear of another family in like state, travel- 
ing but a few days ahead of us. They, too, 



The Long Last Mile 33 

were bound for Illinois, and, as in our own 
case, the father was under the pall of the then 
incurable white plague. Our grave was be- 
hind and theirs ahead, that was all the diflfer- 
ence ; we hoped for their sakes that theirs 
might be so far ahead as not to be among 
strangers. 

There was but one main road leading 
from the southwest into St. Louis, and as 
we were both following that, we heard of them 
almost every day. The condition of the man 
grew more and more serious. All who had 
seen him said that he was very, very ill, 
and could not live many days. 

And so the end came at last. Though we 
were expecting it, we were shocked and de- 
pressed above measure, when we found the 
grave one day. It was on a green bank in the 
woods near where the road crossed a small 
stream. We came upon it unexpectedly — a 
little ridge of clay — and our own wound was 
opened anew by the sight. We wondered if 
the family had prepared their dead for burial 
and filled the grave with their own hands. 
If so, then in this, at least, their lot was 
harder than ours. When we lost the trail of 
their wagon soon afterward, it seemed we had 
parted company with kinfolks, though doubt- 
less they never heard of us. 



34 Where the Long Trail Begins 

It is a long and uneven road the heart- 
broken travel! They are so far apart and 
so burdened that, at times, each one thinks 
himself journeying alone. But other wayfarers 
are always ahead and others eA^er follow. 
Could they but "speak each other in passing" 
it might be a brighter world than it is. There 
is but the wordless sympathy of unseeing suf- 
ferers; it is only through fellowship with 
Him who suffered alone for us all and whose 
ministry has made of one blood all nations 
that the bruised heart of humanity can ever 
come to throb as for one body. 

Somewhere, in Illinois perhaps, that fa- 
therless family ended their journey and a lone 
woman took up the task of caring for her 
orphaned brood. I should like to know how 
fared the folks we trailed so long on the 
return from our pilgrimage to the Ozarks and 
who, so soon after we had tasted the gall of 
bitterness, took up the cup in their turn and 
drank deeply from its unwelcome draught. 

We lived almost wholly in the wagon, day 
and night, taking care to stop not far from 
some village or farmhouse each evening. We 
could have been comfortably housed each 
night, no doubt, for often did the good people 
where we went for water to prepare our 
meals, chide us that we had not asked lodging 



The Long Last Mile 35 

with them. But this queer quality we call 
independence is a thing to be reckoned with, 
and my mother had her share of it. Six years 
later, when the "bad year" came in southern 
Illinois, able-bodied men — men who owned 
their homes — asked aid from the county, but 
no crumb of assistance from that source was 
permitted to enter our house, though we 
tasted no wheat bread in the six months of 
distress. 

Somewhere southwest of St. Louis we 
passed through a settlement of foreign people 
— Germans, I think. They were new in 
America, and clannish. During the three or 
four days we spent on their roads, we had 
to drink creek water chiefly, for they asked 
no favors and granted none. Whether from 
pure selfishness or native suspicion, they 
would not let us have water from their wells, 
either for the team or to drink. One even- 
ing when we had had no water since noon 
and had camped for the night with no pros- 
pect of drink for man or beast, two men trav- 
eling together stopped -near us. They, too, 
had had trouble getting water, and were in 
no mood to be trifled with. Learning that we 
had been denied at the house near by, one of 
them called to my brother to bring the horses 
and a bucket. He led the way and asked 

(4) 



36 Where the Long Trail Begins 

courteously to be allowed to water his team. 
This being curtly refused, he produced a large 
and dangerous-looking pistol and coolly re- 
peated his request. A key to the padlocked 
well was forthcoming, and there was water 
a-plenty for that night. A few steps backward 
would bring me to German ancestors, and I 
have wondered if they had this trait of ex- 
clusiveness so well developed. Perhaps so, 
and therefore I will be charitable with our 
Missouri friends and cherish a hope that a 
younger generation has smashed the padlocks 
ere this. 

" Old Rover," the dog, was our faithful 
guard and vigilant scout for the entire expe- 
dition, but he, too, fared sadly among the for- 
eigners. They had big dogs and bad ones, so 
that visits to back doors, where a morsel of 
food might sometimes be found, had to be 
made with caution. "Rover" was not afraid; 
indeed, he vanquished several ferocious fel- 
lows who disputed his rights, but to tackle a 
fresh specimen at every house proved too 
much for our leg- weary canine ; he learned to 
follow the wagon more closely, turning aside 
only when some venturesome rabbit seemed 
to promise a repast. 

This great, shaggy friend, who had volun- 
tarily espoused our cause, and who deserted 



The Long Last Mile 37 

us within two weeks after we were settled, 
proved a friend indeed. We had little to give 
him for his faithfulness, but that seemed to 
make no difference with him. I smile now as 
I think of an incident in which he had a 
prominent part one evening. We were pre- 
paring to eat a lunch in the wagon, and my 
mother placed her hand, in which she held 
a long loaf of bread, on the edge of the wag- 
on-bed. "Rover," lying on the ground be- 
low, caught sight of the protruding loaf and 
laid hold with all earnestness. Of course we 
scolded and threatened, but a taste of the 
bread seemed to deepen his vletermination to 
dine with us, and he held on. Right dog- 
gedly did he pull and tug in spite of harsh 
protest from the wagon, and members of the 
juvenile trio looked on with anxiety and 
amusement till the loaf was torn asunder, 
leaving us a scant supply for our meal. But 
the look of satisfaction that lit up the dog's 
countenance as he licked his chops, and the 
hearty laugh we had, was splendid sauce for 
what vv^as left. 

Among the dreads and dangers of the 
trip, our passage through St. Louis was the 
direst of them all. For many days we made 
careful inquiry as to every detail. As we 
came closer, evidences of the nearness of a 



'38 Where the Long Trail Begins 

great center of population began to be seen, 
like bits of drift cast out into still water by 
the force of a whirlpool. The rigs we met 
were of a different type, and the loads of 
teamsters were not such as farmers usually 
haul, while the people themselves were more 
of a ring-streaked and striped appearance. 
We had been told by many that it was "ten 
miles through St. Louis," and this appalling 
intelligence staggered minds to which Spring- 
field was the climax of bigness. 

Not many miles from the city we camped 
by the turnpike one evening. We wanted 
to be fresh for the trying trip of the follow- 
ing day, but we dreaded to come nearer the, 
to us, fearful maelstrom of dangers, and so 
we went into camp early. Lulled by the 
sense of security so easy to children, we were 
soon sleeping dreamlessly, except my mother. 
Her sensitive ears missed no sound, and 
when, in the middle of the night, a horseman 
rode up, she had been listening to his hoof- 
beats on the stony road for miles. He drew 
rein by our wagon and began to hello at us. 
Though terrified and trembling, my mother 
managed to ask him what was wanted, shak- 
ing her eldest son into consciousness mean- 
while. A scattered conversation of questions 
and answers ensued while the boy was being 



The Long Last Mile 39 

roused, and our visitor showed a disposition 
to loiter and give trouble. Presently my 
mother hit upon a happy stratagem. She let 
down the flap of the wagon-cover she had 
raised, and called out : "George ! George ! 
wake up here, and answer this fellow's ques- 
tions for him." The name would fit for a man 
as well as a boy, and the broomstick that 
was thrust out about this time was a good 
enough substitute for a rifle barrel when seen 
in the dim moonlight. At this psychological 
moment, "Old Rover," on guard under the 
wagon as usual, let of^ a growl that would have 
done credit to a grizzly, and our friend of 
the horse lost no time in moving on. 

Of all this I knew nothing, else I, too, 
might have distinguished myself When they 
pulled me out of the wagon over the double- 
trees, I dimly felt that something unusual was 
on; the impression deepened as we went 
straggling up the few rods of road to a farm- 
house, and when I awoke next morning in 
a feather-bed and within four walls, I was sure 
something extraordinary had happened. The 
good woman who received our midnight call 
with astonishment, wept over my mother when 
she heard the story of her fright, and petted 
us children as only a good woman will do 
when her emotions are enlisted. 



40 Where the Long Trail Begins 

We were off early the day we were to 
move on the great city. How far it seemed 
to the real town after we got to where the 
houses were close together! How our eyes 
opened wider and wider as each new won- 
der appeared! How our mother trembled at 
the prospect of things that might happen 
to us ! How our driver watched his mustang 
team as he guided them among street 
cars and vehicles and along the crowded 
thoroughfares ! But straight through the 
great city and across the long bridge into 
Illinois we went without a single mishap, go- 
ing from our course but once and then by but 
a single block, so well had the way been 
learned beforehand. 

I have seen St. Louis a good many times 
since then and on some gala occasions. I rev- 
eled in the marvels and beheld the crowds at 
the World's Fair. But one never sees the 
miracle of a great city through the untaught 
eyes of childhood a second time. The bewil- 
derment of attractions on every side, in the 
windows above and on the pavement below, 
the multiplicity of sights and sounds and 
smells, fairly foundered our senses and fur- 
nished food for fervid remembrance during 
many a day that followed. I have seen many 
wonderful feats performed and been glad at 



The Long Last Mile 41 

times to add my note of applause to the huzzas 
of the crowd at exceptional displays of skill, 
but, all things considered, I do not know of a 
performance more wonderful than that of my 
elder brother, who at the age of thirteen, when 
fresh from the Gumbo Hills, brought that team 
of mustangs and our ramshackle wagon 
through those miles of crowded streets, picked 
his way across the great bridge and landed his 
cargo safe on the Illinois side. And this, too, 
is as it seems to me after thirty years. 

Roads were better on the Illinois side and 
we made better time. A few days' travel 
brought us to that section of the country from 
which, one day six long years ago, we had 
gone forth in quest of a home. Just now, as I 
write, there come to me the words of a woman 
of old, returning to her kindred from a sad so- 
journ in the land of Moab. As never before, I 
can feel the force of her lament, " Call me not 
Naomi" (that is, pleasant), "but call me Mara" 
(that is, bitter), "for the Almighty hath dealt 
bitterly with me." Human life is the best in- 
terpreter of the Sacred Scriptures. 

One evening our tired horses were turned 
into a little lane with persimmon-trees on 
either side. At the end there was a homelike 
farmhouse with a honey-locust in front. It 
was Uncle David's, and when we drew up on 



42 Where the Long Trail Begins 

the chipyard by the gate, our journey was 
ended. A great, fat, good-natured woman, 
who scolded incessantly, but kindly and coax- 
ingly, came out to greet us, and a serious- 
looking man came in from the fields for a 
glimpse at this batch of battered flotsam cast 
up at his door by the ebb-tide of immigration. 
Uncle David! I speak the title with def- 
erence now. He was a poor man, though he 
seemed rich to us, for he owned a farm. But it 
was a rather poor farm, in a rather poor town- 
ship of a rather poor county of a rather poor 
part of Illinois. But, though he was a poor 
man measured by his possessions, he was a 
man, and such a man as we find but two or 
three times in our threescore years and ten. 
Politically he was a Democrat, fraternally a 
Freemason, religiously a Universalist, and 
socially the last court of appeal for the whole 
community. Uncle David! Gone from the 
earth these years, may the good Father of us 
all be kind to him where he is, for we were 
homeless and helpless in a world that knew 
not nor cared, and he took us in. 



Wt 





-'■# 



^^^ 



CHAPTER V. 
On the Long Trail. 

Uncle David lived on Wash Branch, which 
flows into Dry Fork, which flows into Skillet 
Fork, which flows into Little Wabash, which 
flows into Big Wabash, celebrated in story 
and song. It was a shock to me when I 
learned in school how many miles the waters 
of our little branch must flow to reach the 
smallest streams named on the maps. I know 
now, and smile as I think of it, that, in condi- 
tion and prospect, we were fully as far from 
the real world we were one day to join as 
were the headwaters ofWash Branch from the 
"Banks of the Wabash far away." Farther, in 
fact, for in addition to the handicap common 
to our neighbors of living next to no place, we 
had the further disadvantage, and, to us, un- 
pleasant distinction, of having next to noth- 
ing to live with. 

The two ponies, one of which could never 
be harnessed until he had been worked a day 
or two, a worn-out wagon, with what few 
household goods we had been able to bring 
from Missouri, constituted our entire posses- 
sions when we began to live anew. We did 



44 "Where the Long Trail Begins 

manage to get a cow some way; 1 think Uncle 
David must have been back of that; maybe 
we made part payment in cash, for I have 
heard my mother say, that out of the seven 
dollars given her by the kindly group of men 
at Springfield, she had five dollars when she 
drew up at Uncle David's gate. Now think of 
that, will you 1 Talk about making money go 
a long way! Here is the record so far as I 
have heard: Four hundred miles for the four 
of us, with an invalid half the way, a death in 
the family with funeral and incidental ex- 
penses, and all on seven dollars capital, leav- 
ing a surplus on hand of five dollars. This is 
the bare fact, and while it may give evidence 
of a woman's ability to manage, it certainly 
is also a most eloquent testimonial to the 
benevolence and hospitality of the Missouri 
people among whom our lot was cast. 

Some few rude farming implements — an 
"A" harrow, a double-shovel plow and an old 
"nigger" hoe, with a handle that wouldn't stay 
in — were given us by neighbors who had bet- 
ter ones. Garden vegetables and a patch of 
corn were put in, and, almost before we knew 
it, we were started on the long trail. The long 
trail — who, of all those who travel its length, 
can tell how long it is? Its windings were so 
devious we could not guess its length, or if it 



On the Long Trail 45 

had another end, or where it led. Its slopes 
were so frequent and so varied, we could not 
know whether the general course was up or 
down. But traveling this route is a strenuous 
job, and we spent no time in speculation, but 
went on up the road. Looked at from this 
end, or from where we turned off into more 
inviting paths, it seems long enough and to 
spare, but its incline is upward by a gradual 
slant. Hear this, ye tired travelers who fol- 
low, and be of good cheer. 

About this time I enjoyed a long and un- 
expected visit at Uncle David's. They called 
for me early one morning and bundled me off 
breakfastless and befuddled, to spend the en- 
tire day clambering about the haymows and 
hunting birds' nests in the orchard. Such un- 
ceremonious hospitality struck me as rather 
unusual ; but, since it seemed to be meant 
kindly, I submitted in silence. Late that 
evening the elder brother came for me, and 
we rode home together on the back of old 
"Charley." As we jogged along, he told me, 
in curious, hesitating words, that two aunts we 
had never seen, had come that day to make us 
a visit. When I had time to reflect on this, 
he added that each of them had brought a boy 
baby with her. I was a full week pondering 
the situation, and it was only when the aunts 



46 Where the Long Trail Begins 

were preparing to take leave, that I learned 
the babies had come to stay, and swallowed 
the lump that had been rising in my throat. 
And so the babies were soon toddling with us 
on the long trail. If their short legs retarded 
our progress somewhat, their blithe presence 
brought brightness to us all, and in due time 
they were able to have their part in the heat 
and burden of the dragging day?. 

Through the misty film that time has 
stretched on this side of the retreating past, 
forms and faces come to view and the trag- 
edies and farces of that simple life are re- 
enacted before me by individuals, whose looks 
and acts so stir me at times that I want to 
rise and call their names, and ask to be given 
my part and place with them. And then it 
comes to me, as when reality displaces a 
fading dream, that neither they nor I are back 
there, or ever can be again. We are out on 
the stern marches of life, each following his 
own course, and that, too, on routes separated 
by ever widening angles. When the stretches 
of earthly pathways have been traversed, per- 
haps we shall become as children again, and 
go back to romp over the grassy slopes of 
youth ; and then, as shadows softly fall on the 
bosom of the old earth, we shall gather, all of 
us, I trust, and be at home once more. 



On the Long Trail 47 

Who can work out the puzzle of lives that 
have been broken and embittered by circum- 
stances not of their own making ? Not I, cer- 
tainly, and why should I try? It is the old 
problem of the purpose of trouble, over which 
the wisest and most patient of every genera- 
tion have vexed themselves in vain. The 
world, as it presents itself to each generation, 
is like a tangle of wild woodland. Tree, shrub, 
plant, flower, animal and insect sii)g their 
little songs in harmony or discord; they cling 
to each other to help or hurt; they woo and 
wed and fight out their little battles ; they en- 
wrap themselves together in death grapple 
and embrace of love ; there is no minute but 
celebrates the birth of new life, the struggle 
for existence and the beating out of some 
spent heart. Yet each one fills his place and 
lives out the law of his little life as though 
by the fixedness of fate. To our poor vision 
much of it seems amiss; but what do we know 
of the past investments or the future plans of 
the Silent One, who is over all ? Down among 
the chaos and clashings we become critical 
and discontented, when, if we could see the 
whole process as it has gone on for ages, and 
must, perhaps, for ages yet to come, we would 
be compelled to say of all creation, that it is 
very good. The pain and loss we suffer in 



48 Where the Long Trail Begins 

our little world is great enough for us, but 
how small indeed when compared with the 
plans of the infinite One, who out of it all is 
bringing salvation to our kind and glory to 
himself. 

Is it a problem that in a world, where God 
is supreme, a woman, practically blind, should 
be left penniless and defenseless with her 
group of dependent children? Well, yes, a 
problem, and a hard one, no doubt, as meas- 
ured by human rules for calculating such 
things. Add to this that, in the after strug- 
gles, she should often go miles on foot to do 
rigorous service in a farmhouse, returning at 
night with a pillow-slip full of meal, or a piece 
of bacon, scant reward of her toil and scant 
food for her household; that her children, the 
equals of any other, should be frowned upon 
by those, poor enough themselves, because 
they were poorer still and their clothes un- 
comely; that hungry young minds should be 
denied books and papers and such advantages 
for improvement as are now granted freely to 
the criminal and degraded ; and that, worst of 
all, their lot should be laid in country slums 
where no church influence was, and where 
schools were poor; that all this and more 
should have to be endured for years with no 
hint or hope that a better day would ever 



On the Long Trail 49 

dawn — 1 say, put this together and you have 
a problem indeed. 

Yet, if the product is good, who shall say 
of the process that it is bad? There are six 
years I would often have torn out of the book 
of memory if I could — the six years on Wash 
Branch. Were I to be guided by my own in- 
clinations, I would tear these leaves to frag- 
ments, trample them under my feet, and curse 
them with bitter vindictiveness. But I would 
be wrong in this, for there sits youder a 
woman, who has exercised a ftiith and accom- 
plished a work little short of wonderful to me, 
and who, after the tempests of a long day are 
spent, smiles and waits through the twilight of 
life's evening till it shall be time to rest. I do 
not know how else her life could have counted 
for a tithe as much as it has, nor by what 
other process the richness of her later years 
could have been attained. Hard as the way 
has been, I would rather our feet should press 
again into every separate footprint of the long 
trail, than that we should have walked in 
some more favored ways I know and taken 
the risk of uselessness and oblivion that are 
always incurred by lives of ease. 

I can think, too, of a man I know — the 
blue-eyed boy who drove us over the Ozark 
hill-j. Then, and on the longer trail, he played 



50 Where the Long Trail Begins 

the part of an elder brother with faithfulness 
and devotion. Y^'^hoever has gone from Kansas 
City to Denver over one of the great railroads 
that cross the State of Kansas, has owed some- 
thing of the safety and comfort of travel to 
him. He is held in honor by those who know 
him well, and no trust committed to him has 
ever suffered at his hands. When I think how 
this can not be said of a hundred others, who 
had every opportunity denied him, I wonder 
if he would not be worth less to the world had 
he borne less responsibility when a boy. 

And when another woman, after ten bliss- 
ful years of wedded life, was left a widow with 
the tangled threads of an estate in disorder 
about her, could she have taken up the double 
task that fell to her and brought her own 
little ones, well equipped, to the activities of 
a needy world, had she not seen her mother 
succeed with a similar burden a hundred-fold 
heavier ? 

These and other queries have beset me till 
1 have had to conclude that God gives us 
what is best, or else helps us to make the best 
of what he gives us, if we will. 

Ah, well, we have reached the end of the 
long trail now. It led us to the land of 
Maturity. The gates of that new country 
swung back with surprising readiness when 



On the Long Trail 51 

we knocked. We have been inside these years 
— long enough to make some acquaintances 
among the inhabitants and form a few friend- 
ships. I know not how it may be with others, 
and there are a host of them, who came up 
the same way, but, for myself, I have not for- 
gotten the long trail. Sometimes, in an hour 
of leisure, I gather about me a little group I 
know, and tell them of the fun and frolic we 
used to have, and of certain boyish triumphs 
and successes I like to recall, telling them as 
much for my own amusement as for the profit 
of my listeners; occasionally I have mentioned 
a thorn or a stone I happened to discover with 
my bare foot, but when young brows begin to 
cloud, I draw a curtain on the scene, for I 
know they could not understand. 

No part of the steep route over which an 
orphaned boy has to climb from a bitter and 
barren past to a place of humble usefulness in 
the world is unfamiliar to me. I can shut my 
eyes and conjure up the scene at each turn of 
the road. I know the location of every snag 
that can stub a toe, and every rock that can 
start a stone-bruise. I know" every deep hole 
in the creek where crawdads and mussels can 
be dug out of the mud at the bottom on Sun- 
day, when a boy's clothes are not fit to wear 
to Sunday-school. When I see a lad crying 

(5) 



52 Where the Long Trail Begins 

at the curbstone in a city street, or hear 
the sob of a child at night-time, I could stop 
short and mingle my tears with theirs, for the 
fountain of childish grief is opened up anew. 
For this I am devoutly thankful ; if the 
bleak blasts that beat upon us serve no other 
purpose than to drive us within sympathetic 
reach of others in like state, they have made 
us rich indeed. 

Nevertheless, I have some regrets. Early 
experience has disappointments, which no 
philosophy of later life can quite console. 
There are two men I solemnly decided to 
whip when I should be grown up. One of 
them was a farmer who beat me out of a dol- 
lar, twice earned, cutting two acres of sprouts 
with the old "nigger" hoe, and the other was 
an older and better-clothed boy, who used to 
sneer at me in the district school. They 
needed it badly, both of them. I knew it 
then, and I know it now ; nothing else would 
meet the necessities of the case ; a thorough 
drubbing would have made them useful mem- 
bers of society, but the treatment had to be 
postponed too long. The man was killed by 
accident some years ago, and the boy, son of 
a rich man that he was, is a drunkard now 
and poorer than I — may he be pitied — while 
I am a preacher and would not dare square 



On the Long Trail 53 

accounts with them that way, were all things 
favorable. Thus, with merciless irony, has 
the ruthless hand of time dealt with the 
treasured ambitions of my far-away youth. 

The Long Trail — where is it, do you ask ? 
Why, it runs close to where I live, and maybe 
you might discover it near you too, if you 
cared to cast about a little. And it is always 
thronged with travelers. The story I have 
told is one of many, and, for aught I know, 
tame and tedious compared with others that 
might be related. Many a flower-strewn 
path, along which the eager feet of pleasure- 
seekers ruQ, winds round a bit and falls sud- 
denly into the Long Trail ; many a highway 
with finger-boards that point to riches and 
honor intersects the Long Trail at last, leav- 
ing its ambitious wayfarers no choice but 
to go that way; many a first trail across 
the trackless plain or woodman's tree-blazed 
pathway through the forest finds no issue of 
its own and turns, from sheer helplessness, 
as did ours, into the Long Trail. 

I go out this way sometimes and scan 
the faces of those who pass. When I can, I 
like to have a word with the weary ones, 
for, though it may be conceit of mine, I think 
the wise take it well from one who bears 
in his body the marks of a similar strife. 



54 Where the Long Trail Begins 

What a privilege to look into the eyes of a 
wan-faced woman, as she leans over the tub 
of steaming suds, and give the grasp and 
look of one who understands ; of all the grips 
and passes I know, there is none I like so 
well to use. What a stimulating service to 
drop a word of cheer to struggling lads 
and lasses who battle with adverse environ- 
ment, and bid them fight on, with the as- 
surance of victory at last; better than find- 
ing; a home or giving a home to the earth's 
orphans is it to help them make homes of 
their own. 

Occasionally as I wait by the trail I get 
sight of a trudging youngster different from 
the rest. Often I stop such a one for a good 
look into his eyes. I have a feeling that 
long ago I lost one like him, and I can't get 
rid of the thought that he may happen along 
some day, and, if he does, I must speak him 
a word of cheer. But he does not come, 
though I keep watching for him. I have 
met many lads who looked like him, and 
some who had his ways, but he someway 
never comes; perhaps I should not know 
him if he did now, and perhaps he has come 
this way once and will come no more. I do 
not mind the nickels I have spent in the 
well-meant quest for him — I am well con- 



On the Long Trail 55 

tent they should go for what good they can 
accomplish, just in memory of him, you 
know — perhaps, after all, that is as much as 
I shall ever be able to do for him. 



CHAPTER VI. 

Retrospection and Reflection. 

Strangely fascinating is the pictured can- 
vas with which the long hall of memory is 
hung. Its unnumbered scenes stretch away 
to the shadow-land, where once we began 
to know and think and feel. A silvery veil 
of glowing mist seems ever to hang before it- 
Almost imperceptible near at hand, this sheen 
grows denser in the distance, so that pic- 
tures farthest off have an added glory, while 
the one retouched but yesterday and the one 
unfinished as yet, to-day shows bare, blunt 
outlines, angular and uncouth. It is not 
easy to believe that this treasured past is 
but a composite of the uninteresting presents 
that have been. Ah ! it is the work of time. 
"Time the enchanter" one would say, but 
not so. Time is no enchanter to delude us 
and make things seem more lovely than 
they are. 

Time but disillusions us that we may 
truly see and know for once the value of 
what he has brought us. We are robbed of 
the present, and ever-possible joy of living, 
by fear — needless, foolish fear. We let antic- 




Rctrospcctic 



Retrospection and Reflection 57 

ipated trials detract from real and rational 
pleasures. Our forebodings bear no fruit; 
or, if trials do come, they are but transient, 
and helpful in the end. When we paint the 
future we put in these dark outlines ; but 
time, with better taste, strikes them out for 
us, and when we look back, the canvas is 
bright. This talk of the good old days is a 
delusion, and not a harmless one by any 
means. Those days are of a kind with those 
now passing, except that they grow richer all 
the time as they pass. The faith that trusts 
God and goes ahead is what we of this age 
most need to add zest and relish to our lives. 
But Time is a transformer, working ever 
with steady, justice-guided hand, by laws un- 
erring and benevolent. When royal families 
retrograde and degenerate, the ferment of 
unrest sets silently to work. Presently there 
is an eruption. Revolution clears the atmos- 
phere, reversing the order, and Time turns 
his glass the other end up and sets things 
going anew. When the rich grow arrogant in 
their independence, forgetting that they, too, 
had humble beginnings, and dare to despise 
the plodding poor, lo, already the anointing 
oil of untoward circumstance has fallen on 
the locks of some lad from a sun-kissed hill- 
side in whose veins kingly currents run. 



58 Where the Long Trail Begins 

When scholars, rich in the lore of books 
and puflfed up with vanity, sneer at or ig- 
nore the eager askings of the lowly and un- 
schooled, a great class is in training, out 
where birds flit to and fro, and soft-eyed 
sheep nibble the sward; and at the bidding 
of Providence some uncouth Spurgeon, some 
Lincoln with forest fragrance in his garments, 
some Edison with his hindering deafness, some 
Clemens from his river raft, climbs up an- 
other way and stands glory-crowned on the 
crest above them all. 

In all this there is, of course, an occa- 
sional accident, as we see even in the realm 
of nature — the tempest-wrecked leaf-tower of 
the woodland, the starved nestling of the slain 
bird-mother, the maimed member of the herd 
limping behind its nimble-footed companions 
— but the general rise and fall of things, 
the great ocean swells, the light and shade 
of life, all come and go by laws unvarying 
and divine. 

Values fluctuate in our appreciation, as 
markets vary from time to time. The pos- 
sessions of mankind, that once seemed to 
me of vital importance, appear to have a quite 
difierent worth now. So many persons I once 
envied, I have come at last to pity, that I 
found soon enough that, to be a man, I must 



Retrospection and Reflection 59 

pluck up the weeds of envy from my heart 
that tender plants of pity might run rife and 
bear their seeds. Among all our sinning, 
suffering fellows, the one most to be pitied, 
is he who feels no pang of pity for the ills 
of others, and he only who may be envied 
is that rare rich man who has no taint of envy 
in his heart. Blessed are they whose lives 
begin with humblest scenes, and whose bodies 
feel the pinch of sheer poverty, if thereby 
the later years are enriched with the enduring 
wealth of that peace which cometh to the 
upright in heart and the power to love even 
the unlovely. Poor indeed is he to whom 
these things never come, whatever else he 
may gain of the world's plunder. 

We constantly undervalue the worth of a 
good word. Nothing else pays so well as in- 
vestment in courageous speech to the world's 
disheartened ones. The ninety and nine may 
be heedless of our well-meant proffer of en- 
couragement, or may forget it and us forth- 
with, but the hundredth one will be heartened 
by it, and will praise the Giver of all good 
for it, remembering us when we are gone. 
In an old album of mine are inscribed these 
words: "Dear Sam: — Every young man who 
dares to do right will succeed in life. The 
world may seem cold and hard, but the faith- 



60 Where the Long Trail Begins 

ful will be rewarded. — W. C. B." I could not 
tell how often I have read these words pen- 
ned by a schoolteacher who understood, nor 
how they have helped me when no other help 
was in sight. "W. C. B." — perhaps not one of 
all who read this can guess what name these 
letters indicate. It does not detract from the 
worth of his words to remember that he did 
not always "dare to do right" and was not 
always "faithful" as he should have been. The 
thought of his later delinquencies but awakens 
pity in me, for I doubt not the world dealt 
bitterly euough with him, if, as I have heard, 
he walked the hard way of the transgressor, 
and I would gladly cross a State to grasp his 
hand and thank him for the good word he 
gave. 

There is a great lot of unofficial and un- 
labeled goodness in this world. With no place 
for it in our classification we will go sadly 
amiss in our appreciation of what is worthy. 
When we discover one doing good, in the name 
of Him who noted the Samaritan's deed and 
made it deathless, we ought to give the grip 
of recognition and go gladly on. So long 
as the deeds our Lord began to do are left 
untouched by those who own his creed, those 
of other name and nation must befriend him 
and do his bidding. When close contact with 



Retrospection and Reflection 61 

the unfeeling and cynical begins to make 
me callous, I go back in memory to that four- 
hundred- mile wagon-ride out of the Ozarks; 
I recall the plain people who greeted us all 
along the way as though expecting us; the 
meeting of men in the wagon-house at Spring- 
field; the good doctor who would have no 
fee, but who gave compassion when hope could 
not be offered; the ferryman and tollgate- 
keepers who refused our money, except in a 
single case; the strangers who took charge 
and assumed all responsibility when death 
came ; the weak-eyed Hard-shell Baptist 
woman who quickly marked me as a Camp- 
bellite when we met for an hour in the country 
graveyard where my father lies buried, but 
who, God reward her, kept my father's grave 
for thirty years with no single word of tidings 
from any one of us. These people were of 
every religious denomination — and none; of 
every degree of culture — and the lack of it — 
common in that day and place, and of every 
conceivable station in life; yet the doctrine 
of Jesus beginning with, "Inasmuch as ye 
have done it unto one of the least of these," 
was a controlling force in their lives. 

It was not so in this old world once. It 
is not so to-day in lands where He is not 
knowm. This much is clear to me : not all 



62 Where the Long Trail Begins 

who serve him are clothed in the customary 
garments of the sanctuary. The eyes of those 
who know Ilim and have learned His way, 
look out sometimes from the grizzled visages 
of those accustomed to the hard ways of a 
hard world. The feet that go for Him are not 
always neatly shod. The hands that do His 
tasks are often brown and bony. But He 
knows His OAvn and has them where they are 
needed most at times when they can serve 
Him best. This faith is enough for me if I 
can but know Him and serve Him when He 
wants me. 

It is faith that moves the world. Faith^ 
the much-talked-of and little-understood 
force. My observation of faith -full men and 
women when under sore trial has been my 
best commentary on the eleventh chapter of 
Hebrews. The writer of that passage names 
but a few of the heroes of faith — enough 
merely for his purpose, to show that faith 
moves the world. Were some gifted one to 
write again, he could add much to the 
catalogue of wonders wrought by faith. Nor 
have they all been wrought; all about us are 
those whose silent and unseen part in the 
tragedies and temptations of life, though un- 
appreciated by those nearest them, gives 
testimony to the overcoming power of faith. 



Retrospection and Reflection 63 

Occasionally! meet a man — seldom, though, 
a v/oinan — and one usually it is who has felt 
no frown of disfavor cast upon him in all 
the way, who sneers at faith in God and 
Christ. Then I think of a defenseless woman I 
once knew, taking her uncertain way from 
the grave of her dead and, without money or 
influential friends, bringing her five orphans 
through hardships and discouragements to 
honored maturity and lives of usefulness at 
last; aud all the way groping, groping, grop- 
ing in the ashy shadows of her darkened life, 
with no hand to hold but that of an unseen 
God, and no name to call before his throne but 
the name of One by whose stripes we are 
healed. I say, I think of all this when I meet 
one who scoffs at God and religion, and, may 
I be pardoned if it is wrong in me, I would 
like to strike him in the ftice and shame the 
mouth that dishonors God and disowns his 
care for the defenseless. 

This world looks to me like a harmonious 
whole. Even its discords and sorrows are part 
of a plan. I can not but believe that there is 
a wise One over it all. If this be not true — 
if there is not somewhere a place and some- 
how a plan that eyes that see not here shall 
be opened, ears that bear not here shall be 
healed, and lives here cast down shall stand 



64 Where the Long Trail BEorNS 

erect — it will be the only disappointment in 
the whole scheme of things. 

I could not tell all the windings of the 
covered way in which we walked, if I would, 
and Heaven knows I would not if I could. 
The mere hints I have given are all I could 
tell of the struggles upward, and they are 
enough, I trust, for the purpose I have held in 
view. The little triumphs for which we bat- 
tled together in glorious fellowship and which 
stand out brightly along the way — the first 
lamp-flue we had in the house, for instance ; 
the first timepiece ; the first carpet on our 
floor — a partnership investment from the earn- 
ings of us children, my mother stitching the 
"rags" that formed the w^oof ; the first ready- 
made clothes ; the first teacher's certificates ; 
the first college diplomas ; the first sermons 
— all these are so like the first things in other 
lives that they may hardly be mentioned. 

What a help it ever is to meet one in like 
state with us. When confronted by some grave 
trouble, a financial reverse, a serious illness, 
a domestic tragedy — just to know that another 
has met like obstacles and has surmounted 
them nerves us for the test. It is with a hope 
that I might encourage another, or inspire 
some one else to do so, that I have written. 
To know that I have done my part as best I 



Retrospection and Reflection 65 

could, is a sufficient reward for the effort it 
has cost me. To be a humble member of that 
greatest and best of brotherhoods — the suc- 
cessful unhelped, who have become helpers of 
others — is honor enough for me. They are 
a numerous company of princely men whom 
to know aright is an honor indeed. I recog- 
nize them wherever I happen to meet them, 
and they are a splendid lot; toilers all of them, 
in workshop, factory and office; statehouse, 
college and court; farm, pulpit and platform; 
and the pride it gives me to be one of them is 
a vanity I trust may be pardoned. To have 
met them thus, and to have told my little 
story to an audience able to understand, has 
been a pleasure to make the heart glad. But 
the work of busy lives is waiting, so — 
farewell. 



